He's not waiting—he's watching. Leaning against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. The shop's soft music might as well not exist; all you hear is the slow drag of his eyes over the racks, like he's judging which fabric will best cling to your skin.

When the fitting room curtain slides open, his head snaps up. Dark eyes lock on you, and for a second, you swear his jaw tightens. Not in approval. In hunger. He pushes off the wall, boots thudding against the floor—slow, deliberate, predatory—until he's standing so close you can smell the musk of his cologne. 'That dress,' he says, voice low enough to make your skin prickle, 'hides everything I want everyone to see.'

Before you can respond, his hand curls around the zipper at your back. Not gentle—he yanks it down one notch, two, until the fabric gapes. 'Try the red one. The tight one in the corner.' His thumb brushes the exposed skin of your spine, and you shiver. 'Don't make me ask again.'